


Love Is A Sickness Full Of Woes

by Reiloves



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But only briefly mentioned, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, John Loves Sherlock, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, POV Multiple, Parental Lestrade, Past Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 22:33:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5223473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiloves/pseuds/Reiloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock watches how the ex-army captain’s blue clad eyes sparkle as he speaks on the phone, the easy, bright smile decorating those lips as he throws his head back in laughter at something she (Jane, or Jeanette, or Jenny or something equally inane) says. </p>
<p>And he falls even deeper. </p>
<p>And he wonders if he’ll ever stop. </p>
<p>Loving him. </p>
<p>Wanting him.</p>
<p>He wonders if he will forever dream, for the one day-that maybe... someday…  he would finally see him; that he would finally love him. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is A Sickness Full Of Woes

Sherlock watches how the ex-army captain’s blue clad eyes sparkle as he speaks on the phone, the easy, bright smile decorating those lips as he throws his head back in laughter at something _she_ (Jane, or Jeanette, or Jenny or something equally inane) says.

_And he falls even deeper._

And he wonders if he’ll ever stop.

_Loving him._

_Wanting him_.

He wonders if he will forever dream, for the one day-t _hat_ _maybe_... _someday_ …   _he_ would finally see him; that he would finally _love_ him.

-

Greg Lestrade pursed his lips, taking a distracted sip of his cold coffee as he stares at Sherlock and John in thought. He cansee the obvious affection the younger male has for John, just from the way his eyes immediately drift to him when _he_ walks in, and the small, sad look that he wears when he thinks that no one is looking- it’s a look Greg knows far too well, having seen it many times back when Sherlock was still a teenager, suffering from loneliness of the ostracisation his intellect brought. It’s a look that still gets him every single time, heart aching when he remembers the days he couldn’t do anything but try to be there for his drug addled charge, running gentle fingers through ruffled curls as he quietly sobs and asks why _him_.

He remembers telling Sherlock back then- the day the genius comes home with tears streaming down his cheeks because his so-called _boyfriend_ had dumped him with accusations that it was his fault anyway because if _only_ he wasn’t such a _freak_ \- that there was nothing wrong with him, and that one day, _one day_ he’d find someone who could accept him as he was.

He almost wishes he could take it back now, because Sherlock _did_ find that someone in John, and was hurting all the more for it.  

Greg thinks he can almost hear the fluttering of the consulting detective’s heart- the heart everyone believes to be non-existent- when the blonde slides up to him with a wide grin. Andwhen Sherlock nonchalantly agrees that they are done and could leave soon because John has a _date_ , even though the case hasn’t been solved, he finally understandsjust how much Sherlock really loves John.

But he also knows that Sherlock has never believed his love to be reciprocated.

He wishes that Sherlock could see- not just look, but to actually _see_ \- the way John’s eyes light up as they land on him, the way his smile brightens, widens even more when he’s around; the way he cuddles up close to Sherlock when he sits by him- bodies pressed together from shoulders to toes.

_If only he could see…_

Because the inspector can, and what he sees, is that John loves Sherlock, just as much as Sherlock loves John.  

-

Sherlock stirs from his flu induced sleep when he hears the door of his room squeak in the fog of his mind, groggily blinking at his uninvited guest. Bleary eyes register his intruder as John when he leans over him and whispers his name, a fond but worried smile on his lips as he slides a cool palm beneath his bangs. He reaches out and pulls John down beneath the covers with him, burying his head into the warm jumper clad chest, just as he always wished he could do, inhaling that comforting scent as he lets out a quiet hum of bliss.

And he thinks that this _must_ be another dream, because it feels like heaven with John in his arms- _unreal, beautiful, perfect_ \- because why would _John_ come to _him_ in the middle of the night?

But it’s not till he feels a tender kiss gingerly pressed to his cheek, accompanied by a husky _goodnight_ as he drifts off, that he _realizes_ it’s only a dream, because this can’t be real, not when John doesn’t love him back- _he just doesn’t._

When Sherlock next awakens, to dull grey clouds, the smell of freshly brewed rain, and _no John_ by his side, he feels a strange tug of disappointment at his heart. And he can’t help but be angry- _not with John, no, never with John_ \- but with himself. Because he shouldn’t be disappointed, he just shouldn’t, not when this was all he’d expected, and he hates himself- _his pathetic, vulnerable self_ \- because it hurt more than he thought it should.

He tries not to dwell on it as he storms out into typical London weather, the constant shower of icy rain prickling against tender skin. His clothes are rapidly getting soaked through, but he doesn’t stop; doesn’t turn back even when he knows he’ll have to account to a very irate John later.

The crystal droplets relentlessly slap down on him, bruising, but the sharp bites are numbing, and Sherlock is grateful for that, because he doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

But they come anyways- _the tears_ \- but he’s too tired; just too sick and tired of all this longing and loving and despair, that he just breaks down, lets the tears fall freely as he’s getting drenched.

When he finally decides to return to their flat, his lips are already turning blue, teeth chattering as he shivers uncontrollably. He fumbles with his keys, cursing when they slipped through his unresponsive fingers. The door flies open at the commotion, just as he bends down to pick them up, and he’s met with a very flustered John, blue eyes dancing in anxiety and relief as they land on him.

Head swimming as he straightens, Sherlock tries to focus on the worried male in front of him, lips forming incoherent words as he attempts to string appropriate words together through the mush his brain is reduced to.

“Why…” _are you upset?_

But that’s all he manages, darkness abruptly overwhelming him as he crumples forward- into John’s surprised arms.  

_“…Sherlock!”_  

-

_Hot. It’s so hot... He tries to move away from the suffocating heat, to move somewhere safer, but all he sees is the leering darkness, and he can’t move- not while he can’t see, but the heat was moving closer, and the fear that gnaws at him is spinning his mind out of a calm control, into a panicked state._

_He tries to peer through the darkness, but everything that’s there is just nothingness, and the panic is escalating when he realizes that he doesn’t remember his whereabouts, or how he ended up in this place. He can’t breathe; the heat is burning, scorching his flesh, but still he can’t move, and no one can save him- and he’s too young, he doesn’t want to die yet- he can’t die._

_Not when he hasn’t confessed; not when he needs to tell him that he loves him._

_He scrunches his nose in confusion, irritation prickling his mind because he knows he’s missing something important, knows that he’s forgotten something that should never be forgotten._

_Him... who...?_

_But try as he might, the heat is distracting, and he can’t think, can’t remember who he needs, and-  
“Sherlock...” _

_He hears the voice- faint, but it comes again, and a face flashes through his tortured mind. He feels enlightened, as if a great burden has been lifted from his chest, and he sucks in a shuddering breath as the air steadily starts to trickle in. The heat doesn’t hurt as much anymore, replaced by comforting warmth, and he feels safe._

_Because now, he knows where he has to go- who he has to return to._

-

“John…”

“Sherlock? Sherlock, love, can you open your eyes for me?” Even through the haze in his head, he knows that he _knows_ that combination of smells; of honey and milk shampoo, of tea, of _home_ , and more importantly, he knows _those_ hands- the one that is currently grasping his, tightly squeezing, and the other that is running soothingly through his hair as if trying to gently rouse him.

“John?” He squints through the sudden light invading his senses as his eyes flicker open, relaxing when his vision clears enough for him to make out the weary figure of his flatmate. John breathes in relief, smiling at him when he sees the sharp focus on him– he’d never thought he’d miss that scrutinizing so much, not till he was faced with days of scrunched, shut eyes in fevered dreams at worst and glassy, uncomprehending  eyes at best.

“Oh Thank God, I was just about to bring you in if you still didn’t wake up. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” He automatically replies, even though he doesn’t feel fine- not that he’d ever admit that- pushing himself up to a sitting position on trembling arms.

“Only you could get a fever of over forty one degrees and still say you’re fine. I swear, I almost had a heart attack when you collapsed on me. You’ve got to stop doing this, Sherlock.” John sighs as Sherlock sniffs disdainfully, eyes crinkling in worry as he reaches up to slide a cool palm beneath the bed of riotous curls.

“I’m _fine_ , John, if you’re just going to stand there and smother me with your worrying and nagging, I suggest you take your leave now.”

“Oh don’t worry, Sherlock. That was the end of me being nice. _This_ is the part I start yelling.” Sherlock groans, looking like a petulant child as he slumps with a dark scowl, flinging an arm dramatically over his eyes. 

“John-”

“No, I don’t care, you’re listening to me. You know, for a genius as brilliant as yourself, you can be such an _idiot_ at times. Why you would think it was a good idea to leave the flat _at all_ , let alone into the _pouring_ rain, when you’re _sick_ , is absolutely beyond me. Honestly, I leave you alone in bed for like half an hour _tops_ , and next thing I know, _THERE’S NO SHERLOCK HOLMES IN BED_.” John throws his hands up in exasperation, glaring at the shocked detective.

“W-What?” Sherlock stutters, arm falling from his face as he gapes at John, mind whirling with the implications of what he just heard. John lifts a sardonic eyebrow, peering suspiciously at him, as if trying to gauge some deeper, underlying meaning behind his question.

“What do you mean what? Are you trying to deny that you disappeared on me? Because I know what I saw, I’m not an idiot, contrary to your beliefs.”

“No, not that. Your last sentence. Say it again.” Brows furrowed at the urgency and light hint of desperation underlying those words, John pauses, arms lowering in confusion as he stares at the detective worriedly.

“Uh, I leave you alone in bed for half an hour and you disappeared on me?” He finally ventures, carefully, uncertain as to how the words would be taken. He doesn’t know how else they could be taken, simple words as they were- or at least, he _thinks_ they are simple, but who knows what goes through that great mind of his. 

“You left me alone in bed?” John’s starting to get worried now, frowning apprehensively at Sherlock, now sitting upright in bed, back straightened with tension and blinking uncomprehendingly at him.

“I just said that, yea. Sherlock, are you sure you’re alright?”

“For half an hour?”

“Well, more like twenty minutes but yea, I had to run and grab some medication from Tesco’s, since you used them all up in some experiment of yours- I’m still angry with you for that, by the way.” Sherlock tuned out the rest of what John was saying, mind still drawing blanks as he tried to process what it all meant- it felt important, it _was_ important, but he just couldn’t quite figure it out yet.

_He left me, **alone** , in bed for **twenty minutes**. Was he with me before that? How long was he with me before that? Does that mean… But that doesn’t necessarily mean that he was with me. He could have just been routinely checking in on me. And even if he was, he was probably not **with** me- of course not, John wouldn’t be with me, why would he, he’s not gay-  _

 “You left me alone in bed for twenty minutes?” Sherlock winces as the words fell unbidden from his lips anyways, cursing inwardly at the disbelief and hope tinting those words- and Good Lord, he was _repeating_ himself- was he always so _obvious_ when it came to John?

God, it’s no wonder that crimes of passion were so ridiculously easy to solve, if love was going to turn people into such bumbling _idiots._

And worse still, he knew better than to even attempt to blame this on being sick- this, _this_ was all _John_.

“…You’re repeating yourself, Sherlock. God, how hard did you burn your brain? Maybe we _should_ go to the hospital.”

“No! No, I’m fine, John, promise. I just- I thought- you weren’t there when I woke up.”

“Yea, I just told you, I had to…” John says slowly, trailing off as he took in the vulnerability in the way the brunette held himself, the barely hidden hurt in those gorgeous eyes as he looked away from the scrutiny, throat bobbing in a hard swallow before he gave the smallest of nods in acknowledgement.

_No… that’s not right. It’s…_

“Oh,” John breathes out, stunned with the realization dawning on him.

That wasn’t simply acknowledgement- it was _embarrassment_ ; it was _shame_.

“You thought… that it wasn’t real.”

“It? What do you mean?”

 “Me. And you… in bed.” John flushes, deep crimson rapidly climbing his neck when the detective’s eyes widen in shock, jaw dropping comically.

“No, no that’s not what I meant. Oh God, that came out wrong. Not that I wouldn’t- I’m not trying to suggest- I mean, I know you’re not interested and-” He rambles hurriedly, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him because _Dear Lord_ , he was an _idiot_ and he was going to ruin everything and-

“But I am!”

“… What?” He can’t help but blink in surprise when the exclamation stops him short, cutting across his panicked thoughts, and he thinks he must have fainted, or something, because he _swears_ he just heard _Sherlock_ say that he was _interested_.

In a _romantic_ (sexual?) relationship with _John_.  

“I am. Interested, that is.” But there it was again, and disbelieving as he is, maybe he’s not dreaming after all, because he’s not that desperate to try and force dreamlock to confess that he was interested _twice_ , and in hindsight, Sherlock _did_ drag him into bed after all.

“But you’re… you said you were married to your work.”

“Yes, well. I changed my mind.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, huffing in indignation when John lifts a sceptical eyebrow at him.  

“Oh, come off it, John. Don’t tell me I’m not allowed to change my mind.”

“I do admit that even _I_ personally never thought I would ever find someone… People are so unbearably _dull_ after all, but _you_ , John. You are the most singularly interesting person I have ever met, and I find myself constantly surprised by you. I think I can safely say that I have never been or will be more interested in someone in my life.” He continues in a much quieter voice when John continues to stare at him, eyes flickering down to the ground so he wouldn’t have to see his reaction. He doesn’t think it could be anything good anyway, even though taking John’s words into consideration, it really _could_ be- was more likely than not, in fact- but he doesn’t dare to _hope._

 “But- But you’re Sherlock Holmes, Mr ‘sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side’! I didn’t think… You said you were a high functioning sociopath.”

“Something you know not to be entirely true, John.” Sherlock says, and the words must have come out much softer than he’d intended, further gentled with the small and exceptionally fond smile he doesn’t realize he has on, because John smiles back, and it’s every bit as tender and just so _John_ that Sherlock falls in love all over again.

_Dear God, I love him._

He can only stare at John helplessly, forcing down the desperate whimper that wants to escape (even just the _idea_ of him whimpering is absolutely unacceptable), because no one has ever looked at _Sherlock_ the way John has, and the thought of being without John- of a life without John, he thinks, cannot and will not be a life at all.

“…I do, don’t I.”

And Sherlock is looking at him with so much emotion, so muchsuppressed _hope_ , that his breath catches in his throat and John doesn’t even stand a chance, the words slipping out before he gets a chance to think about it.

“I love you.” Sherlock freezes, muscle tensing as his face starts to shut down, and John curses inwardly, almost apologizing and taking it back; almost _regrets_ saying it because it’s just _too much,_ _too fast_.

But then Sherlock practically pounces on him, lips pressed firmly against his, and he _definitely_ doesn’t regret it- not when Sherlock is returning the sentiment, whispering it frantically against his skin with every chaste kiss he places.

_Oh what the hell_ , he thinks, _as long as he has Sherlock._

 

-

 

_"I wish I could quietly think,_

_And stop love and hate from tipping the scales_

_But when I think of you,_

_I find that I’ve lost my balance,_

_I can turn out the lights,_

_But I can’t stop this storm._

_As my heart beats, Love turns into suffering_

_Every minute, Every second_

_The fire burns, if only I could burn to ashes_

_To silence my longing for you._

_I was convinced I was almost,_

_Almost able to forget you,_

_And reacquaint myself with loneliness._

_I may not have your love,_

_But I won’t beg for it,_

_What needs to be done,_

_I don’t need for others to tell me._

_When I’ve sunk to the bottom of this ocean_

_There’s no one for me, but myself._

_I am convinced that I’m almost,_

_Truly, I’m almost_

_Almost able to smile,_

_And face the next embrace."_

_\- Suffering_ by Jess Lee

**Author's Note:**

> So! This is me trying my hand at a sickfic, and i have to admit that i dont think it went very well, but nevertheless, i do hope you enjoy it. :)
> 
> I can't guarantee that it's not sorta OOC or anything, but well... I TRIED MY BEST T_T
> 
> The song lyrics at the end, is from a mandarin song called Suffering, which I've been hooked on and relooping as i wrote this fic, so i figured i'd add that in, and like, isn't it just so Sherlock?! (Or is that just me? :X)
> 
> Please leave some love and comments (or not, though it'd make me very happy if you did) :D


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